I am an Adult, Godamnit
by I'm Beth
Summary: Demyx is getting sick of Zexion's lack of fun, and Zexion is getting sick of Demyx being sick of him. Light Zemyx fluff. T for cursing.


A/N: Hello! I've been gone for quiet some time, hu? Lawl, like anyone noticed I was gone. I've been feeling very Zemyxy lately, and this needed to be written. So enjoy. Or don't. But I'd rather you did.

"_You ever put your feet on it?"_

_ "What?" At this comment, Zexion was finally forced to glance up at the attention-seeking blond (who was currently reclining in the chair opposite him and flipping through some magazines he'd found in the lobby). He didn't usually answer questions so inadequately; his way of speaking had much more prose and metaphors than the average person, and he was sure this is this first time since he was three that he uttered a one worded sentence, but he figured he could make an exception, just this one time. "You mean on my desk?"_

_ "Yeah!" Demyx spread his arms out wide to encompass the whole of Zexions large and wide mahogany desk, which held two neatly arranged piles of paper —with an "in" box and an "out" box— a slim and vicious laptop (which could find porn like a bloodhound, not that Zexion had any knowledge on that subject), one expertly sharpened pencil, and one manila folder (the only thing one could find that was out of place in this workaholics dreamland was the garishly huge bouquet of dewy red roses, brought by the afore mentioned attention-seeking blond, who had seemed to make it his soul mission in life to make sure Zexion never got any work done). "You know, lean back, put your feet up on it. Like those corporate bosses do in the movies after they've signed a paper to take away some poor families home on Christmas Eve." If Zexion's way of talking included an abnormally large amount of prose and metaphors, then Demyx had a way of talking, where his vocabulary just couldn't convey the proper message, and he had to use pointless and, at times, seemingly endless similes to describe something as simple as reclining in a desk._

_ "No," Zexion murmured with a guarded expression. "My papers would get dirty."_

_ Demyx frowned, and Zexion could just see the wheels in his brain slowly turning to find some way around this roadblock; rubbing at his chin, not out of habit, but he'd seen his favorite acter do it in a movie, and he was trying to look like him —and let it just be said that Zexion hadn't hit him once for it. "You could move your papers."_

_ "I have too much work to do to just lay back and relax all day." Lies. Most days, all Zexion did was sort a few files on his laptop, or search for (porn) educational websites._

_ Demyx flopped back in the chair that faced Zexion's large and wide, mahogany desk, throwing up black-nail-polished hands in exasperation. "I give up! You're no fun at all!"_

If, on a normal day, all Zexion did was sort files on his laptop or (jack off) catch up on his reading, then on Sunday, he did even more of nothing. His collection of (porn) educational websites exhausted, Zexion leaned back in his red leather chair and sighed. He looked back at the papers that still cluttered his desk in a very neat way. He'd rarely seen his desk from the perspective.

_"You ever put your feet on it?"_

Zexion scowled, and bid the thought from his brain.

_"You know, lean back, put your feet up on it."_

No. No way. Not in a million years.

"_Like those corporate bosses do in the movies after they signed a paper to take away some poor families home on Christmas Eve."_

That just wasn't him. He didn't do things like that. He just wasn't that guy. He was in control. He had a handle on himself, and he _did not_ give in to foolish compulsions.

_"I give up! You're no fun at all!"_

Oh, fuck it.

Zexion looked at the door. It was closed, and no one had bothered him all day. It would be very bad luck if someone decided to come and check on him now. And Zexion had always had impeccable luck.

He looked at the intercom on his desk. No one had needed him so far today. (It had actually been eerily quiet all morning. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought they'd all left early and forgotten him in here —which was a possibility.) And even if someone did call up on the intercom, they wouldn't be able to see him or know what he was doing.

Casting one last surreptitious look around the expansive room, he slowly pushed his chair back. His fingers were quick and efficient as they hurriedly tidied his desk. There was a strange measure of giddy excitement welling up in his throat as he pushed the papers into a drawer, drawing forth a manic grin upon his normally somber appearance; it was like the excitement of a retired man throwing his briefcase out a window (something he secretly dreamed of doing someday). He was going to something that. . . well, wasn't really rebellious, but it was fun, and had absolutely no purpose.

Settling back in his chair (letting it touch his lower back for the very first time) Zexion started to raise his feet. He planted them on the desk and tensed for a moment, waited. Then he relaxed them, crossed them at the ankle, folded his hands behind his head, and sighed. This was nice.

And for a moment, it was.

And then Lexaeus crashed into the room, (which wasn't really fair —he didn't crash by choice, it was the only way he could travel at that size) carrying an armload of papers that looked a lot like the papers Zexion had already filed.

Zexion gave one, pitiful squawk of surprise, and promptly fell out of his desk, scattering it's contents all over the floor as he went.

And Lexaeus would never know that he had forever killed every fun cell in Zexions body.


End file.
